


Out of Sorrow (entire worlds have been built)

by Anons_mouse



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Caretaking, Caring Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Fix-It of Sorts, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Kidnapping, M/M, Magical Tattoos, Mental Health Issues, Mind Control, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Mind Manipulation, Much hurt but also so so much comfort!!!, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Power Imbalance, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Protectiveness, Recovery, Restraints, Serious BAMF!Jaskier, Soul Bond, Soulmates, Telepathic Bond, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:47:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25274896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anons_mouse/pseuds/Anons_mouse
Summary: .Then Geralt heard the whisper.A slight movement of air like the parting of curtains, open for a moment then gone, powerful and yet empty. An impossible magic flickered through the universe. A wrongness that itched at his skin. And as the unmoment echoed away, it was followed by an agonized sound, halfway to a whimper, halfway to a sob.Geralt spun toward it. Instinctively acting against the threat; back across the floor and down, blade held to flesh before a second breath was even drawn.But instead of a threat, a naked, terrified man lay, sickly and shivering, on the hot stones by the fireplace. His arms drawn up to hide his face, his knees tight to his chest. Fear and pain written in every contour of his being."Jaskier?"***Five years ago, Jaskier vanished.Though Geralt tore the world apart searching for him, no trace was ever found. Not even magic could track him. It was like he had been somehow erased from existence...Then the bard returned, broken and transformed. His body, an intricate tapestry of cruel, beautiful spellwork. Silver threads burned deep into flesh and mind.Now magic flowed instead of blood in his veins..
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 157
Kudos: 512





	1. Prologue: Out of Longing (great wonders have been willed)

**Author's Note:**

> This fic will explore some darker themes (in flashback and referenced - please see the tags). But don't worry, our dear Bard is far stronger and braver than the best of us and he will get through this, even if he ends up a little different from the man he was before. There will also be comfort ahead for him, whole oceans of comfort. Oh and badassery too! He's Jaskier after all! And it will have a happy ending.
> 
> This is looking to be quite a long fic, therefore I'm looking for an editor/beta if anyone would like to volunteer :) 
> 
> There will be a list of chapter-specific warnings in the notes at the end of each chapter.

**Prologue**

**Out of Longing (great wonders have been willed)**

Jaskier awoke to the comforting, familiar smell of leather, his thoughts still so heavy with sleep and drugs that he almost forgot, almost felt safe. Too tired to care, too pained to fight, he let his consciousness slip away once more, even as his body began to shake and the tremors twisted his limbs against the cruel straps, deepening bruises already blue and purple. He'd gone away again into memory, to his peaceful sanctuary of the past. 

**_[Geralt was making dubbin in a pot over their campfire. First, he'd melted the beeswax that he'd bought at the market that day, knowing they were running low and that Roche's saddle needed some care. He'd made sure the wax ran smooth and liquid before adding the tallow and the oil to the mixture. Stirring constantly till it combined and then letting it cool slightly before pouring it into one of his precious glass pots. He'd always been careful to keep a store of it handy, knowing that the environments he travelled, and the monsters he battled were harsh on the leather in his kit._ **

**_They had already set up camp and eaten, taken care of their chores and were amidst those quiet hours where the only interruption to their evening was from the crackling flames and the occasional bat as it landed in the trees overhead. Jaskier was busy composing as usual, humming gentle melodies under his breath and sketching out accompanying lyrics in his notebook.]_ **

Jaskier wrote out the lyrics exactly as he had the first time, just as he remembered them and nothing more. Careful not to change anything in the memory. He desperately wanted to keep this one and he didn't have many left. His mind a twisted labyrinth of cruel fictions and corrupted truths. He'd learned that changing the memories corrupted them and opened the door for Him to enter, to cut another piece of him away. But if he kept to the memory exactly, he could keep it for a little while longer, hide it in that corner of his mind that he had created to hide inside, his Nowhere Place. 

**_[The evening had been cool, crisp enough to draw Jaskier closer to the flames, a risk he usually avoided when using his lute. But now that the ice could be seen on the leaves at dawn he knew their days together were limited, soon they would need to part for the winter and he wanted to compose Geralt one final song. He would go to the university to teach and Geralt to Kaer Morhen, the cycle of their lives, drifting slowly apart as the nights grew longer before once more returning together in the spring._ **

**_He heard Geralt pull his heavy cloak out from the saddle bag and pace back towards the fire. He let out a tired grunt, as he dropped to the ground next to Jaskier, letting the heavy weight of the cloak settle across both their shoulders._ **

**_"Pass me your lute strap," Geralt held his hand out expectantly._ **

**_Jaskier shifted his shoulder forward and unclipped the band, handing it over, careful not to lean in too close to the flames nor lose the warmth of the cloak. Geralt flipped the leather over in his palms, assessing the cracks and indentations with a critical eye before beginning to rub in the mixture with practised strokes._ **

**_They had often spent nights like this, Geralt tending to their equipment, mending and cleaning while Jaskier quietly plucked away the hours before sleep. The firelight soothing and comforting them both as they curled up together, the warmth slowing their movements and their minds. Companionable tasks taking them into the evening._ **

**_Sometimes they'd wake up the next morning like that, having fallen asleep curled up in the cloak and each other's arms. Their breath ghosting together in the chill of the dawn air.]_ **

Jaskier felt consciousnesses returning through the pain, and that ever-present burning in his skin, in his mind. Like someone had wrapped red hot chains around his limbs and left them there burning him over and over. In a way, he supposed they had. The pain never left, it was with him through sleep and while he was awake, it ebbed and flowed, from agony to ache, but it never left, never subsidised completely.

Jaskier knew he wouldn't be able to move, to see out from the blindfold or raise his head, but he couldn't help trying. Instinctively flexing his wrists and ankles against the leather holding him down to the table. The movement would give him away, but hiding was pointless anyway, they already knew exactly how much or how little he was able to take and whether he was awake or asleep held little importance to them. He could always be dragged back from that nowhere place, if needed, there was no corner of his mind left unblackened. 

"Ah, Bard. You decided to grace us with your company once more. How was your nap?" sung out Finael, cheerful as ever. The most talkative of his ever-present captors, servants to their Lord and his only companions.

Jaskier didn't bother to reply, he never did anymore. Knowing there was no point, and long ago losing any semblance of hope that begging might illicit any kindness. He had settled into silence, taking back what little acts of will he controlled, that he could deny them. 

A cool hand rested on his brow momentarily, before slipping back to affectionately brush his hair away from his forehead. Jaskier felt ice creep through his veins at the touch, he knew that touch intimately. There was only one person who could still touch him barehanded, a man they called their Lord. A knowing, fearful horror grew in his chest. There was only one reason he would be here, and destruction would always follow.

The Lord's deep, honey warmed voice answered in his stead "Oh, he's fine. Had a nice little visit to his past and got to play his lute little too. I could hear you humming in your mind so sweetly. Do you miss it my Dear? We could find you one I'm sure, on the next world, and you could sing for me. Wouldn't that be nice," not expecting a reply, the voice thrummed with amusement. 

The cool hand was back, but this time it held a damp cloth to wipe away his sweat and tears. The blindfold was kept in place, but the strap holding his head down to the bench was released as the cloth swept down his face and behind his neck.

It felt heavenly to his agonised nerves.

It felt so good to be touched again for the first time in months. Jaskier desperately wanted to turn his cheek into that gentle hand. He knew he would be welcome to do so, that the gentle fingers wouldn't hesitate to circle his cheek and warm lips would press themselves to his brow. He knew all he had to do was break, just a little more and he would find comfort in that cruelty, seek affection from that which only brought despair.

_Please,_ he wanted to beg, _please stop being so kind, I can't fight back when you're kind. I'll break. Please! You can hurt me again, just please stop!_

But his Lord, of course, could hear him, clear as if he had spoken the words out loud.

"Oh my Dear Bard, I never want to hurt you. Do you not suffer enough already? I know the unfortunate side effect of our important work is pain, but I promise you, nothing I do to you is meant to inflict more than absolutely necessary. I would have your soul dear, not break your body."

The cloth was back, wiping down his chest now with the same purposeful but gentle strokes.Every second or third pass it was rinsed off in a basin and returned smelling clean and fresh. It was done with care, like you might bathe a sick child or a beloved pet.

He was taking his time, removing each strap one at a time and wiping down the skin beneath, before fastening it again. He hummed disappointedly when he got to the bruises underneath, each patch of skin a black and purple testament to Jaskier's struggle to stay sane, he was proud of each and every single one. And on the rare occasions he had to glimpse his own skin, he gathered the memory of those marks together, a reminder that he was still there inside, still fighting.

"You should be more careful with yourself. I would hate to have to permanently still those muscles of yours, to protect you from yourself. We have so much work to do, you and I. I can't have you damaged."

Jaskier kept his mind quiet, focusing on his breathing instead of his panic.

"Nothing? Alright then. I suppose we'll just have to see how you go. We have much to achieve tomorrow. Whole worlds are waiting for us, my dearest Bard, just imagine what we will accomplish."

  
  


Jaskier felt the horror that had been hiding in his bones explode into agony, panic and disgust ripping their way through his lungs.

He screamed.

Felt the table shake underneath him, the high windows above shatter. Glass shards cascaded down around them, but he never heard them crash to the floor, barely felt the cuts. 

He screamed and screamed, till cold fingers gripped themselves tightly around his throat and there was no oxygen left to use. Till the dark crept up ready for surrender. _Gods no… Please! Don't. Don't make me._

_"_ Hush now Bard, Hush" the fingers were back to soothing him, gentle swipes through his hair and across his cheeks, "There is no need for that. Calm or I will calm you myself,"

Jaskier fought back another wave of revulsion, nausea hit him in sick spasms, but he fought it back. Pulling in oxygen in rough gasps and chokes.

The hands guided his head to lay back down onto the table. The strap had broken. 

"There is nothing you can do, dear heart. So take solace in your innocence, for you will bear no responsibility for what is to follow.

As your reward, once we are finished, I will allow you to retreat back to your memories and your sleep. And if you do a good job, I will even find you a lute so you may play for me. If you can still remember how. 

But for now, you may rest a little while longer as I have preparations to make. Rest my sweet bard, for, at dawn, I will need you."

Jaskier listened for His steps to fade from the last of the echoes in the vast room. Though he had never seen it, he knew the chamber was enormous and filled with all sorts of strange machines, furniture, books - he knew the sound of pages turning- and all manner of other strange objects.

Though he was always kept blindfolded in this space, that he spent the majority of his time here meant he knew things anyway. He knew that The Lord sometimes worked at a desk close to his left making potions and poisons, some he had Jaskier swallow. He knew that the furthest wall was almost entirely made of high glass windows that could be opened to let in the spring breeze or shut when the nights turned cold. He knew that along each of the other walls were shelves and cases of books, more than he had probably ever seen, even more than the university, than the king's library. And in the middle he knew there was a raised platform, that took three strides to climb and on that platform was another table fitted with the same straps which held him now. But that table was metal and cold. That table had grooves cut into it so that blood and sweat and piss could drain away. And besides the table was a workbench, with all manner of knives, needles, inks, potions, tools and equipment. Everything neatly laid out in the perfect condition.

Jaskier knew all this because he had spent months lying on that table. Years even, he wasn't sure, being broken in the most delicate, agonising, cruel ways. He knew that they had done something to him, knew he was different now. That now, when they strapped him down to that table something almost completely took over, some part of him forgot how to be human anymore. And everything was agony.

He couldn't go through that again, not after the last time. When every cell in his body had felt like it was being ripped apart and he had heard screaming that wasn't his own. It was the screams of millions of others, all drowning in agony just like his own, dying. And he'd wished he could follow them down. Away.

Jaskier knew he didn't have the strength any more. He didn't have the ability to fight it. Whatever He was going to do, it would be the end. Even if his body kept breathing, he would no longer be there. He decided then, to do the only thing he had left. To drift back into memory, to go so far down into the wild seas and frozen wastelands of his mind that he would lose himself to it. 

_Geralt_ , he thought to himself, _I'll find Geralt and I'll be gone._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: psychological torture, restraints, kidnapping, abuse, non-consensual touching/bathing and mental manipulation. Nothing graphic here, but past torture is alluded to in this chapter.
> 
>   
> Thanks for joining me on this journey. Comments give me life. Please do let me know what you think!


	2. Every Little Thing (anticipates you)

1\. **Every Little Thing (anticipates you)**

Geralt lay his whetstones and knives out on the table by the hearth. All the other inhabitants of Kaer Morhen were either asleep or away, so Geralt had settled on the slow but necessary task of working his blades. Winter would soon close in, and bring with it Eskel, Lambert and maybe even Coen. Soon there would be little time nor peace enough for quiet, private moments such as this.

He took the first of his blades and the coarsest of his stones. Pouring the oil over the surface he began to sweep it back firmly in smooth strokes. The exact angle of the blade, the movement of his wrists and the perfect pressure required for the motion he had refined over years sat by campfires, half his mind on the task, half drowsing to the sound of lute strings strumming under clever fingers. Even now, after all this time, his ears still strained to catch the barest whisper of that warm witty voice, only to be met with silence.

It’s why he does this task at night and alone.

Before the others arrive and after Ciri has gone to bed, he takes out his blades and lets his mind sweep back. Letting the warmth of the fire and the whisper of the wind down the old stones and crumbling battlements, lull his senses and bring with it a weary, familiar sort of loneliness.

He felt his mind drawn back, past the years at Kaer Morhen training Ciri, past the battles and the politics, the monsters and the months searching. Dragged back to a mountainside and the cruel, cold words that had he had flung against Jaskier, weapons sharp as any blade. He’d known, even under the influence of the djinn, he had known how to wound him. Instinctively carving out just the right words to turn that beautiful loyalty and trust to ashes.

He’d regretted it immediately, of course he had, but only in a distant dreamlike way. The spell had held just long enough for the trail to go cold. Just long enough for Geralt to storm through two hunts and three towns, only to awaken gasping and horrified with the realization exactly two weeks later. 

Just long enough for the Bard to vanish.

He'd searched haphazardly at first, so ashamed and guilt-ridden that for months he’d avoided facing the truth. Surely Jaskier would be waiting in the next town, singing in the next tavern. He just had to be patient; he told himself, they had always found each other before. Geralt had even rehearsed his apology, while plodding along dusty roads he’d grunted through it again and again, searching for impossible words, anything, somehow to take it all back and erase the pain.

But when winter came, and nothing of him had been seen, he had hoped, desperately, that maybe Jaskier simply did not want to be found. That he was actively avoiding him. The only other possibility… not an option.

Even now, years past those petty delusions, his hands lose their rhythm. The knife skidding jarringly against the stone and falling from his fingers to the floor. It clatters, the harsh sound snapping him back to reality.

He shakes himself mentally away from that old game of rumination and regret. Knowing it to be selfish and unhelpful, indulgent even, to go chasing down the guilt again and again. What purpose was it to regret unless it was followed with action? What assistance was his suffering to Jaskier now? Better to plan for next spring, the next step in the search.

Even if all he finds is a grave and an end to hope, it’s better to know.

It was Yennefer who finally forced him to comprehend what he had lost. In desperation he went to her, begging her for a tracing spell, anything that might guide him in his search. But she had failed, as did all the other magicians and druids that he sought out, with increasing terror.Even spells designed trace the dead had found nothing; no grave, no spirit, nothing. It was as if Jaskier had never existed at all.

He wasn’t too proud to admit it, even if only to himself, that even now it felt like someone had cut a piece of him away, a limb had been hacked off, and hadn't even noticed. He almost wished to return to that enchanted dream state, that fantasy where he hadn’t taken a blade and carved away pieces of his own heart.

If only Jaskier _had_ chosen a life without him in it, Geralt would be happy for him, just _please_ , he pointlessly prayed again and again, _please don’t be gone_.

Only Jaskier’s old songs were ever played, their popularity growing with every passing year, till Geralt heard them echoing out the doorways of every tavern and inn in The Continent. Those brave, bold tunes had haunted him, taunted him with their shared history. But nothing new was ever released, Geralt would recognise it, even when sung by another, he would know the heart of it. But nothing new ever was heard, nor was it ever Jaskier’s voice filtering out across the evening.

He had taken to avoiding taverns and inns. Camping by roadsides and in barns to avoid the memory of joy. He supposed he would always irrationally hope that one day he would walk through town and hear a song of his joyfully Bard echoing out and know that he still existed, somewhere, anywhere.

It took another two years to finally admit to himself that Jaskier was most likely lost. Years had passed and not one sighting of a bard by the name of Jaskier had been reported anywhere in The Continent, nor Nifguaard, nor Skellig, nor anywhere else he had searched. Finally, Yennifer had spoken to him, her voice firm as the last of her locator spells faded around them, but her own eyes were distant and confused, “He’s not anywhere, Geralt. If I knew any way to find him, I would try it, I have my own regrets.” She sounded genuinely remorseful, her voice heavy with emotion, “It doesn’t make sense, but you have to move on.I’m so sorry, but it’s over.” 

He hadn’t replied, even as her words, heavy with the truth, settled like a weight on his shoulders. It was another year before he allowed himself honesty of mourning. 

Yet still he couldn’t quite admit defeat. 

Geralt sighed, and shook his head frustrated with himself for once again wasting half his evening on regrets, ruminating over the unchanging facts.

Jaskier was gone. 

“Stupid Fool,” he muttered to himself, as he picked up the now finished blades and fit them back into their sheaths, “You stupid, sentimental fool,”

He polished off the last of his ale and stood up, figuring there was nothing more to be gained from retreating into old painful memories. He might as well head to bed, maybe in the morning he would venture down into town and see if any lord or local mayor had sent word of a hunt. It was still early enough in the winter that he might be able to catch something nearby before the cold really set in. A monster kill always served as a welcome distraction and a little coin never went astray.

He picked up the knives and strode over to fit them into the harness that was hanging on hook by the door, cheered by the thought of getting one last hunt in before the pass completely closed. He hoped it might be something big and lumbering, Ciri needed the practice killing in close combat and he could use the exercise.

Then he heard the whisper.

But not quite a whisper, that was wrong, more like breath held then let out silently. A slight movement of air like the parting of curtains, but silent, open for a moment then gone, powerful and yet empty. His mind grasped for a way to comprehend the impossible frozen moment that had flickered through the universe, the wrongness that settled against his skin.

As the unmoment echoed away, it was followed by an agonized sound, halfway to a whimper, halfway to a sob.

Geralt spun back toward it. His knives already out and drawn, ready to fight. His instincts sending him into action against the threat, back across the floor and down, blade held to flesh before a second breath was even drawn.

But instead of a threat, he saw a man, sickly and suffering. A naked man lay stiff and shivering on the hot stones by the fire, his arms drawn up to hide his face, his knees tight to his chest. Fear and pain written in every contour of his being. Curled up like children and animals do when terrified or hurting. Geralt didn’t withdraw the knife, but he didn’t act either, assessing for danger but finding little, he was frozen with indecision. For what seemed a long time the man didn't move, except to pull into himself tighter still. Geralt continued to watch warily. The only movement, his breath as it entered and left his body.

He hadn't heard a portal opening nor sensed a spell being cast. How this man had managed to get past all of Kaer Morhen's wards was beyond him. In fact, nothing had signalled his arrival except that strange feeling, an empty nothingness that had shivered down his spine. 

A quiet sort of dread settled over him. It hadn’t been a portal, that was clear enough, but whatever it was, it was like no other magic he had ever felt or seen, and something about it was wrong.

But then strange tremors began to move through the man’s body, small flickering involuntary movements up from his toes and knees, across his back. And they were getting worse with each wave. Geralt could see his hands start to clench, his toes start to curl grotesquely with the shuddering movement that swept through him. As the tremors turned into convulsing, violent thrusts, his limbs were thrown out with chaotic involuntary jerks.

The man was seizing and obviously not a threat, to anyone but himself so Geralt dropped his knives and pulled back, giving the man room.

“Damn it!” he growled as the man’s body began to flail wildly, the seizure slamming the back of his head hard against the stones. He reached for the blanket swung over the back of the chair and managed to thrust the blanket under the man’s head before the next wave of convulsions hit. 

“Fuck!” he cursed, wincing as he noticed the thrashing limbs inching closer and closer to the open fireplace. He knew better than to risk touching someone so obviously magic affected, but he just couldn't stand by and watch him burn either.

Geralt knew he should hold back, call Vesemir or Ciri instead, but couldn’t very well let the man burn.

“Fuck it!”

He grasped the man by his wrist and yanked him forwards, away from the flames.

The contact had been for barely any time, a couple of seconds at most, but immediately Geralt felt his fingers and palm blistering, the scalding burn soon ripping up his arm.

Pain washing over him in agonizing waves.

_Of Course! Fucking Magic!_ He half expected to look down at his own hand scorched and raw such was the agony. But as he reluctantly drew his eyes down, and looked at his palm, all he saw was a couple of red angry lines, on anyone else they would leave marks but on him already fading. The pain however lingered longer, a stinging scald like boiling water poured over tender skin. He wouldn’t be touching the man again any time soon, a lesson he only needed to learn once, or so he told himself.

But the man was still fitting.

He was well away from the open flame at least, but still obviously in distress. Stilted moans, and slight whimpers from lips pressed down against the cold tiles, held back between clenched teeth, his face shielded by long lengths of greasy, unwashed hair. Geralt wasn’t sure if the man was conscious, those having seizures rarely were, but there was something about the way his limbs shook but still held tension, how his fingers grasped at nothing, but seemed to curl closed between the irregular rhythm of the cramping muscles. It was like he was attempting to seize back control, muscle by agonizing muscle.

It was excruciating to watch, as the fingers fought against their turmoil, one by one curling shut into a tremoring palm. Then the fingers were held closed by the thumb over them, as if not trusting his own control, keeping his hand in a desperate fist. Then the wrist and elbow, flinging back and forward, jarring but slowing, forcefully pushed against the floor till they too stilled. Then the arm, pulled in one desperate motion against his chest, heaved tight and pinned under the weight of his body while the other was worked on, the cramping deliberately brought under control.

His groaning was getting louder, as if the effort of reclaiming his own body was forcing the air out of his lungs with heavy angry sobs.

Geralt gave in and crouched down next to the man, unsure if he should try to help or if he even could. He couldn’t imagine the pain the man must be experiencing, the sweat and exhaustion evidence of the extreme toll this process was taking on him. Let alone the poor state of the man’s body, thin enough for his ribs and the bones of his spine to jut out almost through his skin, the poor man was starved and sick.

He couldn’t weigh much more than a child.

And then there were the strange marks on his skin.

Unlike anything Geralt had observed before, somewhere between a tattoo and a scar, but also obviously neither. For one they were metallic, shimmering slightly from the reflected light of the fire, but also seemingly emitting light from within. Subtle pulses of energy or magic flickered along the marks and travelled around his body in odd seemingly random movements.

The lines were fine, cruel echoes of the fine linked silver chains only the most talented jewellers could craft, like those draped around the necks of courtly ladies. But these were embedded into his skin, were part of his skin, recalling filigree and lace at the necks of princesses and kings. But this was all over the man, carved into every inch of skin, even the bottoms of his feet were a lattice work of silver threads.

There were symbols carved too, connected to the lines, some small, others larger. A row of them ran directly up the line of his spine and under his hairline at the back of his neck. And none of the symbols were even faintly familiar and that was even stranger still. Geralt thought he could at least recognise all the known writing forms, if not read them, but this, this was nothing like anything else he’d seen, this twisting, interconnected spider-like script was bizarre.

By this time, the man was noticeably fatiguing. He’d managed to turn back onto his side and was trying to jerk his legs up to his chest, to pull into himself, curl inward like a child might. But the effort was futile, with each wave of tremors and cramps sending his feet and legs thrusting out again, uncontrollable kicking and scraping again the rough floor. Geralt winced, more damage to the already starvation thin skin.

He could see from his harsh breathing and lagging muscles that the man was going to succumb to exhaustion soon, the effort taking up the last of his energy, pure willpower keeping him fighting and conscious. Geralt was impressed despite himself, the poor man just kept fighting his own rebellious limbs back again and again, desperate to regain control.

Till finally the tremors, seemed to be releasing on their own anyway. Finally freeing him from the agonizing battle against his own limbs.

Geralt felt the strange urge to reach out and comfort the man, to rest his palm against the flat of his shoulder and tell him to keep fighting, that he was strong enough. He wanted to reach under the man’s knees and pull them up for him, to give him what he so desperately wanted. The insanity of the impulse was enough to have Geralt yank himself back, he’d unknowingly crept closer to him, as if drawn to him somehow.

He had no idea if the man was actually dangerous, but the urge to help him was unnerving. Geralt ran his hands through his hair in an effort to keep himself from reaching out, he didn’t understand the longing, aching want that had settled in his chest. He wouldn’t touch him, knew better than to risk burning himself on marks again, but still desperate to help in some small way, do something, anything to ease this obvious suffering.

In one last wretched struggle, the man finally succeeded in curling into himself, arms encircling his knees as he lay on the floor panting with the effort. His head tucked into the top of his knees, the slightest whisper of a sob could be heard between breaths. But he was still losing the fight with consciousness, the exhaustion a heavy and relentless weight. 

Barely a moment between one breath and next the man’s will finally collapsed, and he succumbed to unconsciousness.

His limbs limply fell open once again, vulnerable, and pale against the dark stone beneath. For the first time the man’s head rolled back against the tiles, long hair fell away to reveal a face that was young, almost pretty.

Geralt felt his heart shudder against the walls of his chest before he even had time to process thought. He felt himself gasp, his body reacting instinctively to what his mind could not yet comprehend. He felt the hairs rise at the back of his neck and the oxygen thick in his lungs, it was like he was drowning and falling at the same time.

Adrenalin shot through his veins but there was nothing to fight, nowhere to run.

Geralt’s whole body shuddered and he let out a low agonized sound as finally, finally the realization crashed through to his conscious mind. This man, this shaking, wretched figure was the other half of his soul returned, broken and suffering.

“Jaskier?”

Disbelief, horror, hope, fear, all mangled together in that one desperate word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: psychological torture, restraints, kidnapping, abuse, non-consensual touching/bathing and mental manipulation. Nothing graphic here, but past torture is alluded to in this chapter.   
> Comments give me life! I'd love to hear from you!!


	3. Oh We Will Know (won't we?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My apologies if this chapter is a bit confusing, poor Jaskier himself is totally confused too. The next two are from Geralt and Ciri's point of view and should be much easier to read.

  
  
  
  


****2\. Oh We Will Know (won't we?)** **

Jaskier awoke to a wash of warmth that soaked deep through his skin, settling into tired muscles and aching bones. 

He was sure it wasn’t real, as always, just figments of memory clinging to his consciousness, the walls holding reality and fantasy apart growing ever thinner and weaker. 

By now he was used to the endless chilling gusts that swept and circled the cavernous room of his captivity. His body used to the sleet and snow that frequently fell from windows left carelessly open high above him. Though often he burned with fevers and searing pain, the other agony was the fatigue of the constant cold, the ache of shivering muscles too long held tight and still. 

But no one ever seemed concerned when he felt his fingers grow stiff and burn, then numb.

No one checked that he was breathing after long nights listening to his own heart beating slower and slower. But never still, never such mercy. 

He knew, after the first few months, that they had done something to him, something to keep his heart beating even though it should have ceased, to keep his blood moving through his veins even though it should have frozen solid. Their Lord had done something so they didn’t need to care for him. 

Without food, without warmth, without light, without care. Jaskier would continue to live. 

And then there was his unfamiliar positioning. 

He woke to feel himself curled up his side, like a child, his limbs held protectively inwards, his head tucked into his knees.

This instinctive posture, so often yearned for as he lay splayed wide open on the table. But his limbs now so atrophied and weak, agonisingly sore, that even maintaining this simple pose was a struggle. Seeking safety he hid in stillness, willingly paying through pain for just a little while longer in this fantasy.

To deceive through absence, his body held perfectly immobile. Long ago he’d learnt the value of silence, of stillness, and the cost. 

But he didn’t know the cost of warmth and movement. And he was terrified.

Too terrified to hope, he sought a path back into the darkness, to the cold, carefully hiding behind false sleep. He let himself slip back through the pain to the Nowhere place. 

**_[_** **_He wasn't even sure he knew how he had done it, but somehow instinctively, when the pain and the fear had overwhelmed him, he_ ** **_had created The Nowhere Place._ **

**_An entire internal world built out of memories and out of dreams._ **

**_And at first, it was so beautiful, so colourful and alive._ **

**_All those cherished places and faces he had known, waiting_ ** **_there_ ** **_for him in his mind. Respite and escape._ ** ****

**_He'd filled the oceans with glorious, fantastical life. Raised whole continents from those depths, sent the earth up into towering mountains and down into rainforest filled valleys. Humid, sweaty swamps and parched, firey deserts burned to life._ **

**_For a day he'd wondered the lands, in awe and joy. Knowing every intimate detail, the way that the moss felt, warm and wet between his toes, the rough texture of bark from ancient willow trees as the dipped their arms into rivers shimmering with fish._ **

**_For one day he'd felt gloriously, miraculously free._ **

**_He'd wondered, while wandering through all those exquisitely surreal landscapes, places old before they were new..._ ** **_He'd pondered... distantly curious, under a numbing sort of apathy if_ ** **_finally,_ ** _finally._ **** _Had he had died?_

**_But no._ **

**_Of course._ ** **_And how gullible of him._ **

**_H_ ** **_ow_ ** _stupid_ **_can you be?_ ** **_How fucking_ ** _naive_ **_!_ **

**_No, he was always driven back to consciousness eventually. The Lord was waiting. He had work for them._ **

**_Back to a body racked with pain and bitter reality._ **

**_And the perfect Nowhere was corrupted. By Him. By Jaskier himself. He didn't know. But the mountainsides crumbled away, leaving sharp cliffs, their valleys strewn with the jagged, deadly rocks. The oceans died and the rivers ran dry. The lakes froze. Forests rotted away._ ** ********

**_And he was dragged, ripped from what was left of the Nowhere back into a body agonised and afraid._ **

**_The Lord had marvelled over it when he found it, found him there the first time._ **

**_“Oh, my dear Bard!” His voice sung out in wonder and amusement, as Jaskier gasped through his panic, “You are a marvel of creativity! No one has ever thought to create a mental world to hide inside. And such a world! Oh, you may be just what I have been searching for, dear, sweet, Bard. This...” He gestured to the sky, back then still a hazy, pale blue, “You are exactly what I need!”_**

**_From then on, always, always the Lord would be waiting. With his pitiless, lullaby voice. Dragging him back to reality, taking more and more away, till there was nothing left but hues of grey, and memories of dust._**

**_The Lord enjoyed the hunt, across what was left of the vast barren fields and through lifeless decaying forests. Jaskier would be compelled to crawl out of the dark. Gasping and choking up salty brine, he’d find himself flung ashore, skin pale and bruised onto endless stretches of rocks and rugged cliffs._ **

**_The once beautiful, complex mental world he had created to hide inside._ ** **_Now it was a desolate, fragmentary landscape patched together from partial, polluted recollections._ ** **_Nothing alive, nothing left of what was once a whole world._ **

**_Sometimes, Jaskier could still retreat into his memories. If he was careful and exact he could stay a little longer and hide, deny him._ **

**_Jaskier_ ** **_would throw himself down amongst the sharp, cutting stones in the riverbed, or dive deep into frozen, oily lakes where the cold and icy water ripped the breath from his lungs but held him tight, still as death. For a few more moments, if he held perfectly still, let himself fade, he could retreat._ **

**_In desperation, he'd hidden them. The last of his good memories, the simple ones, pure and sweet. H_ ** **_e'd them hidden away, some even from himself._ ** **_Cutting them out and cramming them deep into the bark of rotting trees, buried in the ash of burnt farmland, scattered amongst grimy sand under blackened cliffs, beneath muddy_ , ** **_starless skies._ **

**_Though this land was now built out of tar, out of mud, out of lonely desperation. Though this land was a haunted place, a distorted mirror of what he once knew. It was also the only place he ever felt solace._ **

**_This beautiful place, this dying place, this Nowhere Place._ ** **_]_ **

****

But this time he couldn’t disappear, couldn't retreat. Because this time there were no straps holding him down, and because he felt warm for the first time in years. 

_I want this,_ he realised shocked, _I actually want to remember this moment._

So instead he gave himself up into full, startling consciousness, marvelling and afraid.

_What is this place?_

He let his senses widen, just slightly, carefully taking in what was around him.

There was the faint echo of wind through trees, then scratching as their branches brushed against the window panes and crackling logs in a fireplace at his back. The smell of boot polish, oil and tobacco, under the thick mellow scent of smoked meat. It all felt so _real_ even though it couldn't be. And he was warm. The weight of a wool heavy blanket draped over him, shielding him from the direct heat of the flames. 

He couldn't remember when he last felt anything like it. Real warmth. 

Physical heat that seeped through his skin, sinking deep into his bones, that settled the painful spasms and aches of punishing immobility. It gently thawed muscles, released his cold and frozen joints. He wanted to moan or curse, to stretch out, washed with relief, at the incredible easing of the pain. 

He couldn't remember when he last felt comfort like this, it was overwhelming.

He dared not risk wiping away this fragile fantasy. _Don’t move!_ He warned himself.

 _Keep still and maybe you can keep this going a little while longer_.

So he endured the stillness, eyes closed and silent.

_Just until you can turn it into one of your memories, keep it safe._

_Is this a dream?_ Jaskier wondered, but he knew he'd lost that ability years ago. 

It wasn't a dream. 

**_["No, my darling Bard. You must let me take that now. Just think, one slip of your mind and where would we be?" The Lord chided, as one might correct a misbehaving child. "No more of that foolishness. Your dreams are too dangerous now." The remembered voice taunting in His good-natured tone.]_**

Jaskier steeled himself for His inevitable touch, the pain, the cold… barely breathing. 

But it didn’t come.

Instead, there were noises, living smells, warmth, a complex world that around him persisted. Tangible, new and confusing.

 _How? Is this a memory_? Maybe one he'd lost or hidden from himself?

 _But when? When was this?_ _I don't_ know _this place._

Retreating to The Nowhere Place Jaskier combed the dirt and sod of corrupted memory.

On his hands and knees, digging through muck and decay for some memory shaped like this. But found only those familiar, treasured few, those he had collected long ago; caches hidden away from his previous life. 

_Not a memory then? What_? 

No memory was ever so clear and bright as this place, nothing for many, many years.

The last of his clean recollections he'd revisited too many times. Now they were only shadows and reflections, pale and warn. Loved and held dear, but brittle. Like letters too often opened and read, ink faded, paper yellowed with age, words rubbed away by his own desperate fingers tracing the past. 

_Can this really be something new?_ The thought was terrifying.

 _Has The Lord devised a new game?_ He might create a mirage or a dream-labrinth to drag Jaskier deeper into his control. How He loved to taunt, to offer joy that brought only misery. 

_Of course,_ he thought, O _f course, this must be just another game of His._

This warmth, this wealth of new sensation would soon be yanked away and leave only blindness and pain, and His calm voice humming a taunting lullaby. 

**_[The Lord hummed as he worked. His needles previously threaded and sorted into their precise order, dangled from the metal frame that was mounted over the table, the metal creaking as it hung above Jaskier. All that was needed was a gentle tug on any silvery thread for the precise one to come loose, the others clinked and chimed gently in the movement. Those sweet, quiet notes reverberating into space high up above him, a mockery of music._**

**_Jaskier always listened, caught up in the false tune and his own rising horror. Each time they hung those needles, over the many, many hours it took for the servants to thread and tie each one carefully to the metal frame above, Jaskier counted it, knowing that soon he would feel each one. He knew that it was only once the music ended, and there were no more quietly chiming needles above, only then was it over._**

**_Only then was he allowed to escape into unconsciousness, only once_ ** **_the Lord gave permission._ **

**_Sometimes it was a gentle kiss to his forehead or whispered praise._ ** **_Sometimes he'd brush his fingers through Jaskier's sweat-soaked hair and meet his eyes sadly,_ ** **_“You can rest now, my Dearheart. You did so well."_ **

**_"I know it hurts, unfortunately, it's necessary that you to remain awake for my work,"_ ** **_He'd said as He slipped His hand under Jaskier’s neck, tilting his head up to ease a glass of sweetened water to his cracked, parched lips, “I remember my own screams, begging till my voice gave in for the pain to stop. But you’ve taught yourself to endure it, as did I, so long ago. I never would have guessed, from all those silly, little ditties you wrote before, that such hidden strength existed within you.” His thumb brushed away an errant drop from Jaskier’s lower lip before settling back, possessively siding His hand under his chin “Rest, we’re finished for today, you may sleep.”_ **

**_Sometimes he hummed Jaskier a lullaby. ]_**

Any moment now, he expected to hear it, the taunting voice calling him back.

 _Would this world be gone soon_ _too_ _?_

Jaskier felt his heart shudder, loud and uneven, fear quickened his breath, though he fought it back. Control slipping away, giving him away. _I don't understand! Why are you doing this? Why am I here?_

But the world around him didn’t fade away, it grew in stunning complexity. 

_Is this real?_

Dust and sweat, 

Old stone walls, weathered with time and lack of care,

Herbs (rosemary, sage and nettles?) hung up to dry by a hearth

Day-old bread and hard cheese sitting on a table by the door.

There was stew, something rich and gamey (maybe rabbit?), thick with vegetables and beans bubbling lazily, hung over the flame.

He could hear the beams of a ceiling high above creak; howls of wind pummelled and shifted the building. 

The coarse texture of wool, rough against fragile skin. 

The stone below him hard, unyealding.

Solid. Real.

All of it was real. 

_Oh Gods! All of it was real!_

**_[“Haven’t you learned yet, Dear heart? Everything you have, I gave, and everything you’ve lost, I took away. You’ll soon understand or you’ll forget you ever cared. Either way, it’s all for the best. That beautiful, brilliant mind of yours need not worry yourselves about it anymore"]_ **

The remembered words sounded almost clear; as if whispered directly into his ear, like the Lord was crouching over him, ready to scoop him up into his arms and carry his back into the darkness. 

Abruptly it was all overwhelming.

Suffocating. 

That heat, now it burned, scalded in its intensity.

The blanket scratched and smothered. His lungs filled with air thick with smoke. He heaved in a ragged breath and gagged at the taste.

His stomach heaving and writhed, the taste of bile at the back of his tongue. 

He fought it back down. Gulping down lungfuls of burnt air, giving up all semblance of sleep. 

Clenched his fists tight to his chest, pressing tighter, harder with them till he could feel the ache across his sternum from the pressure. Harder still, rubbing till it grounded him, reminded him. 

_Don't lose control, you know what happens when you lose control!_

  
  
  
  


"Hey, stop that! You'll hurt yourself!" A high, melodic voice. Somewhere close to his left. 

_Who? A girl?_

He startled and shrank back. Desperately trying to move away. 

"Hey, no! It's ok!.. I didn't mean to scare you, I'm sorry! Please don't move, you're still too close to the fire," She sounded a panicked, "I didn't mean to startle you..."

He froze.

Not sure how to process the stream of words pouring out from her and the power.

He could feel it, like light flooding a room, flickering into the corners of the darkness. Her power lit up the space they were in, pushing back the shadows pushing back against him. 

He could almost taste it, clean and pure, but also sharp and reactive. He felt his skin responding to her, hot sweeps of her magic burning across his chest, up his neck and back, setting his mind aflame. 

_Don't_ _call on me. Please don't!_

But she didn't seem to notice or didn't seem to care. 

"I could tell you were awake, but I didn't want to disturb you... I’m meant to look after you for a little while, so I gotta stop you hurting yourself. But, I'm not meant to touch you cause he said that would burn me or something. Some sort of magic? Which I could totally tell just by looking at you, I mean obviously, I’m not an idiot!” Her voice bubbled and flowed along like creek down a mountainside, constantly in motion. 

Jaskier was lost in the chaotic tumble of words, the way they flowed out of her, rich with emotion and life and more than he’d heard in months. But she powered on, taking his stillness for calm.

Her power, arching against him, insistent but also strangely affectionate, like a cat might nudge its head against your hand or tail might encircle your ankles. He dared not respond to it, because even cats have claws.

He tried to turn his mind back to her words instead, realising that she was still speaking....

“... honestly never seen him so pale, and that’s saying something!” her words brimming with affection, “Your arrival must have really startled him or something, cause I woke up to him frantically rummaging through my blanket box and swearing up a storm. Next thing I know I’m down here babysitting an unconscious, naked man who just portaled in and is apparently enchanted!” she laughs, “Not that I mind! This place gets pretty dreary once winter sets in. And we could definitely use a new face around here once in a while!" She even laughed, light and happy sounding, unconcerned. 

She seemed willing to ramble on, so long as he stopped moving backwards, and to sense that he was listening, even though he didn't move or respond. And there was something in that, some spark of something, from back from before.

Her power felt familiar, felt known.

_Who is she?_

But his mind remained blank, unsure.

Even the whispers of the wind, that curl themselves around his dying trees and with their hushed voices remind him of things he’d almost forgotten, even they remained silent.

Across The Nowhere Place, everything had fallen silent, listening, waiting. The raging ocean turned placid and calm, then as her voice rang out bright and affecting; like bells tolling, the waves responded, rippling out in smooth, easy motion.

_Strange_

“I mean almost no one can get him all worked up like that, and if you were a threat, well obviously, you would be dead by now. So, now I’m curious and I do love a mystery! I mean who doesn't, and it’s not like…" 

He can feel his panic settling, quieting, even as the questions tumble haphazardly across his thoughts

 _Who? Why_ ? _What do you want?_

 _Shut up!_ He commands his heartbeat, _still and quiet. You know this lesson. Don't react. Don't respond. Don't hope._

"...didn't want to put out the fire because you were shivering so badly, but we couldn't move you either. But he'll be back soon, with more blankets so you won't be so cold..." 

She just seemed to be talking now to fill the silence, her voice growing gentle and soft, it was almost comforting.

He let her words drift in and out of his awareness, too much and too quickly for his mind to follow. 

"...we won't hurt you or anything... he looked so worried. I hope you know that...when he gets back.... He may seem scary, but inside he's a big old softy. I hope you understand what I'm saying… Can you understand me?" 

A pause, her voice holding an expectation, a question hanging between them.

... 

She had asked him a question. 

He knew he had to answer her, somehow. That lesson had stuck. The coils of panic returned. 

He fought back the waves of nausea and fear. He nodded, barely a movement. But obviously enough. 

"Yes? You understand me?" She sounded pleased, while he fought his lungs to breathe. 

He knew his face was hidden under his hair, and against his knees. Curled, tucked up as he was, but he nodded again. A slightly bigger movement. His jaw ached from being clenched so tightly. 

"Oh good! I hoped you'd speak common tongue. But you can never be sure, and with your markings I wondered if you were from somewhere else." 

_Somewhere else..._ He almost wanted to laugh out loud. _If only they knew!_ _There is nowhere else!!_ He wanted to scream at her. _I_ _was so foolish to ever think there was!_

  
_**["....everywhere is here, right now. All overlapping time and minds colliding... Dear Sweet Bard, when will you ever learn? ]** _   
  


Then there were footsteps, heavy like they were carrying something large and unwieldy, a muffled thump off to his side.

Jaskier shuddered and curled tighter, tucking his head into his knees. _Someone else?_

"Did you strip every bed in the keep?" The girl laughed, "If you planned on making a bed down here, why not just drag down one of the mattresses?" She teased. 

A grunt and a shifting of limbs could be heard as the man dropped to the floor beside the girl, the gracefulness of the transition in contrast to his obviously significant build and weight.

Jaskier could practically feel the air shift around the man. He wants to back away, but knows better.

She’d told him not to move. 

"How is he?" A rough voice, ground out, masculine but not unkind sounding. 

"Awake and listening," her voice was lower and quieter than before, gentler. All traces of the earlier levity vanished, "He's terrified."

"Hmmm…" Jaskier wasn’t sure how but he knew the grunt this time was thoughtful rather than dismissive, "Jaskier?"

....

_What? No.... No I....please don't..._

"Jaskier?" the gravelly voice begged again, "Please, look at me."

 _Please, No._ He instinctively hid, curled in tighter, tucking his face further into his knees. _They know who I am?_

If they knew who he was, what he was. And they knew what he was worth. What they could sell him for. Finally, it all made complete _fucking_ sense.

Something cold and detached inside him clicked back into place as the mechanisms of the universe began ticking away the minutes until their inevitable destruction.

He wondered what price they planned to ransom him for, but he knew it wouldn't be high enough. _They won’t make it till dawn._

Not for stealing him from the Lord. 

_They’re walking fucking corpses and they don’t even know it._

The Lord was coming and he would take back what he owned. 

The panic melted away as the realisation settled inside him, somehow this awful truth felt inevitable, correct.

Whoever they were, they no longer mattered. Here didn’t matter, none of it mattered because it was finite, futile and the horrors waiting were infinite. Their deaths, his return to the cold and the dark, all of it simply inevitable, a constant point in the stream of chaos. Certainty always hurt less than hope.

He felt himself finally slipping back into The Nothing Place. Grateful for the release... 

But before he disappeared entirely... as the last of his hope faded... that grizzled, perfect voice spoke once again and ripped his mind apart. 

“Jaskier? It’s Geralt,” the words thick with unspoken emotion, “I want you to know that you’re here at Kaer Morhen. That you’re safe.”

Something fragile inside him shattered. He knew that voice. 

_Oh Gods!_ _Geralt!?_

_Please... please, don't be Geralt._

_Please..._

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:
> 
> Warnings: Non-graphic depictions of torture (flashback), mind manipulation, non-consensual body modification, hypothermia
> 
> Again sorry if that was confusing. Consider this chapter a bit like an internal monologue, with the main character unfortunately a traumatized poet, lost in a mental labyrinth, transported across worlds and dumped into a reality he can't comprehend. Poor Jaskier. Don't worry he'll work it out soon enough, and when he does... Well, you'll just have to keep reading to find out ;) 
> 
> Respectful constructive criticism is very welcome :) 
> 
> Please comment! It makes this all worthwhile :)


	4. I've Felt You Coming (as you drew near)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I've been so slow updating this! Life got away from me for a while. But I'm back to it now.

**3\. I've Felt You Coming (as you drew near)**

Ciri knew Geralt had fled.

He'd stood up, closed his eyes for a moment and calmed his breath, pulling his body back under control, back from the edge of violence. She recognised the need, felt it too.

Then he asked her to watch Jaskier again and walked out. Not even sparing a glance back at the man choking with fear, hunched and cowering, still curled up on the floor. He'd run away. 

Sure, he'd offered her some flimsy excuse, muttering about finding Vesemir for help, but they both knew that he was panicking.

But Geralt would need to find his way back on his own, Jaskier needed her more.

And after seeing how Geralt's return, his mere presence just made the poor bard even more terrified, she couldn't blame him for feeling overwhelmed.

Jaskier had basically shut down again anyway. Retreating somewhere inside himself and no longer even reacting to her voice at all. Even the shimmers of magic, that constantly flickered and flowed through his skin had dulled.

She could only imagine what Jaskier must be experiencing inside his head right now. But she could sense that whatever tenuous hold he had on reality, it was disintegrating. It was like he was fading away, his body growing paler and insubstantial. He was retreating.

She had to help him the realised. Try bring him back from whatever horrible, unreality he was drifting towards before he was gone entirely. She at least had to try to use her magic to form some connection with the panicked man. She wanted to reassure him that he was safe here. That they would take care of him. 

Ciri gathered her power. Stilled her heart and opened her mind. She sent her magic forth carefully, gently feeling for Jaskier's mind, just barely touching the edges of his consciousness… 

... _ash, rotten and putrid stench...._ _...decay_ …. _blackened, barren earth…_

 _..._ _acrid smoke and a mirror..._ _glass shattered and coated with old, congealed blood…._

 _... a song she knew... but the chords were all wrong!..._ _a ragged scream...was it hers?_

 _...._ _darkened freezing rooms… fingernails scraping away dirt and grime.._

_....empty oceans grey and dying… light that's cold, that burns icy and bitter wind…_

_...a humming, gentle voice that sends agonising stabs of pain down her spine..._

_…pretty silver threads dangling high above..._

_… dangling high above_

  
  
  


She recoiled in horror. Gasped and gagged. 

Nausea and shock. Instinct and fear. The need to escape, get away from this pain. Kicking out, shoving, dragging herself away from him. The heels of her feet scraping across the rough stone, into the farthest corner of the room.

Clutching at the wall and heaving.

Rough, violent shudders coursed through her; shared echoes of his pain. _Oh, Gods! Oh, fucking Gods..._ Images of the dark, the emptiness, the rotten and rancid landscape shot across her vision. She couldn't stop shaking, _no…_ her own thoughts were shattered... _no…_ _no!!_

_Cold...freezing cold ... burnt black_ _...ash and terror…._

She couldn't think. 

Couldn't breathe. 

But she forced mouthfuls of air into her lungs anyway.

Ciri felt utterly powerless. Weak and helpless. _That cruelty_... She wanted to run, find Geralt. Find Yennifer. Eskel. Lambert. Vesemir. Anyone who could stand between her and this pain. _Gods_ ! _Oh gods...what did they do to him_?

She could feel it crawling down her arms, echoes of his memories still haunting her, of fingertips touching, soothing. She gagged again and fought back the urge to scratch at her skin. _Breathe._ She told herself. _Just Breathe._

 _It's illusion and memory... It's not yours_. _This isn't your pain..._ but it felt so real. So constant and cruel. Her heart drummed uneven, staccato and awful, a broken rhythm to the beats of pain and loss that still pulsed out from him. 

She closed off her body and her mind. Pulling herself away from the pain. Protecting herself. 

She took another breath. Steadied herself and started meditating like she had been taught to do when injured. Focussing her attention inward, finding that place of calm and stillness that she had been taught to draw her power from. She felt bruised, battle-weary. Like she had just fought for her life. _Oh gods..._

Ciri didn't know how long she was meditating. It could have been hours or merely minutes. But eventually, she pulled herself back. Made a conscious decision to return to the present. She knew she needed to face this, face this man who with only the smallest trickle of connection had almost broken her too. A man she now knew she was powerless to help. 

_Be brave_ , Ciri told herself, _be brave and be kind. Geralt needs you to be strong. Jaskier needs you to be kind._

She'd managed to form the tiniest of links with his mind, almost nothing, but she could at least observe, try to understand. She settled her mind as best she could and turned her attention back towards the man, curled up and alone, too scared to move. Watched his agonising struggle for basic control over his broken body and shattered mind. She could see that he was fighting with every muscle, every thought, every wounded piece of willpower he had left. All of it was focused on one task. One beautiful, incredibly complex task. 

She watched, in awe of his strength. Of his skill. 

He was scraping through the pieces of his mind and trying to fit them back together. It was amazing and horrific to watch. It seemed an impossible thing, but somehow he was able to take the shattered pieces and remake them into something whole. His memories were like shards of broken glass scattered about the floor, and he was like a man on his knees, slicing his hands on each piece he gathered. She could almost smell the blood. 

But he was succeeding. Somehow doing something to his memories that forced them back together, using his power to change the very structure of his mind. He was making something new. It was beautiful. Like watching a painter bringing a landscape alive on the canvas, a poet composing. He was using his memories and making art in his mind. 

She yearned to see more of this world he had built. Was still building.

In his land wild, thundering skies raged above depthless oceans. Impenetrable forests the whispered echoes of ancient long-forgotten places, beasts that once existed, long before this land was owned. Mournful birds shriek distantly from across the frozen valleys, crushed leaves that fallen into damp earth between her toes, grit under her fingernails and ashen snow in her hair. It was a haunted place, a place of memories and dreams. Stunningly complex, stunningly real. 

And she watched he was changing it, sculpting and composing, somehow by taking smells, and tastes, and sounds from all around them and adding them into his world, he was bringing it all alive. _Oh, to explore it all!_ That vast and delicate place he had created in his mind. 

She'd never seen magic like this.

No one had. 

She could also feel it. That _wrongness_ in his magic.

A wound, a rot that was festering deep down inside him. Something blackened was hiding there. It wasn't anything like Jaskier's mind, and wasn't any part of his soul either. That was still bright, though it's light flickered and waned.No, this was something meant to control him, something done _to_ him, something cruel. _This magic wasn't meant to exist here._

His strange, power skittering hesitantly out across the space between them, but never quite touching anything. And then spreading in massive waves of energy flowing out of him searching for something, S _omeone_ ? Seeking out then snapping back, cowering back inside him, before desperately reaching out again, and again, and again. _What was his magic searching for?_

To her, his mind felt like it had sharp edges, like the bars of a cage but they were cutting, hurting him every time he reached out, stopping him from pushing out too far. He was contained, restrained somehow. _But how was he here, awake and unbound?_ She wasn't sure, but he was fighting it, whatever it was, something inside himself, something was still harming him. 

His body now lay still, curled up tightly on the floor, arms held up to shield his face. His eyes remained firmly shut. He'd never even tried to look around like he didn't even know he could. And he was so afraid. She didn't need magic to see that he was almost wild with it, animalistic, blind with terror. 

But he also looked so weak, so small and helpless. Fragile. Yet her every instinct screamed at her to be very, very careful. He was dangerous, volatile. On the edge of something, holding something terrible back.

She didn't understand. But she knew. 

_Don't touch him._

The space around him crackled with potential energy, like clouds before an electrical storm, the air hummed imperceptibly. She feared the storm, the rage of power and force that he seemed to barely control, that made her hair drift up slightly from her shoulders, her skin tingled. The very air around him felt like it might ignite. Might burn them all. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


But Geralt had said the man was Jaskier. 

The man whose name alone sparked such joy in people's minds. His memory lit up the eyes of everyone who knew him, their thoughts growing warm, bright and amused. For the last five years, whenever anyone spoke of Jaskier, their hearts beat a little steadier. He was loved. That was what she knew of Jaskier. That he was sweet and funny and thoughtful. That he shared stories and songs, gave generously with his time and affection. That for everyone who knew him, his memory flickered brightness like sunlight on moving waters. 

But she could sense almost nothing of that warm light left here, in this man. She tried to lay the images of him from her memory over the person she was seeing in front of her, like one might lay out pieces of a puzzle on a table. She could see it all, swirling inside him chaotically. Some pieces of him were bright sunshine, full of colour and texture, but other pieces were built of shadows, pale and ephemeral. But they wouldn't fit together, couldn't. The fragmented pieces were just too different. It was like his mind held two entirely different people existing in the same space at once, but disconnected. He was both and neither. This body may have once contained the man Geralt once knew as Jaskier, but now… now she wasn't so sure. 

This body now...well, she wasn't so sure it was even human anymore. 

She didn't know what he was, but she was sure of what he wasn't. His body didn't feel alive. It felt like power, like magic. Like someone ripped a star from the sky and shaped it to look like a person. 

But here he was, she reminded herself, awake and afraid. He may not be the Jaskier of before, but this being, so strange and unfamiliar now, this man still deserved to be given a chance to show them who or what he had become. He deserved to be shown every kindness, every possibility. He deserved patience and _the goddamn_ _benefit of the doubt!_ She admonished herself.

But she couldn't help sending her mind back to when she'd known him, before the war, before Geralt and back further still, to when she was a child, innocent and naive. Though she had only known Jaskier briefly, through his occasional performances in the royal court and she hadn't often the chance to interact with him as a child, the few memories she had were glowing, joyful moments, where the open generosity of his soul was always clear. Jaskier had made her younger self laugh, with his ditties about naughty kittens and silly knights on crazy adventures. He told her stories of far off places and interesting people. And made her wonder about the world outside her castle and beyond her little sheltered life. 

And in those memories, she found that she too felt that warm, bright flash of affection at the recollections.

Her memories of him were kind. 

  
  


**[**

**_She remembered the time when she had caught him leaving the castle. Early one morning, with his lute swung over one shoulder and a pack on the other, he'd been keeping his footsteps light on the frost-covered courtyard, mindful not to wake the still sleeping stable boys._ ** **_She'd run after him as the sun peeked its way through the orchards below the castle walls, warming the leaves till they shone and sparkled in the cool morning air._ **

**_She'd called out to him, her childish enthusiasm shattering the calm and stillness of the morning. But he hadn't minded. He never did._ **

**_"Sing one more song for me? Something about where you are going," she'd begged, hoping for one more tale of Skellig or the Elven Lands,"Please, just one more before you go!"_ **

**_He'd turned, the agreement and laughter already leaving his lips before she'd even finished asking and replied "Of course, Dear Princess Ciri. I'll always have one more song for you. Although this time, it's not where, but who I seek that guides my steps. I'm off to find my Witcher," the depth of his affection glowing in his eyes "Winter is finally over and every spring we meet by the base of the mountains where the rapids cease and the blue and brown rivers meet."_ **

**_"Well," she'd said, not letting him get away without a tune "Sing to me of him then, tell me about this Witcher of yours!"_ **

**_He'd given her a strange look then, something searched for and found in her eyes, "My Witcher…"_** **_But then he'd smiled, the genuine sort of smile that crinkled the skin around his eyes. He turned to look at the dawning clouds of burnt orange and pink as if wondering if the other was also, in that moment; pondering their shared sky._ **

**_"Ah yes, this Witcher of ours," he'd said with a strange sort of focus, "I suppose you do deserve to learn something of the truth about him, and who other than I will ever tell it to you? And I suppose now is as good a time as any,"_ **

**_So, he'd shuffled his pack off his shoulders and swung his lute round to the front, settling himself down on a nearby stump. "You've heard of Geralt of Rivia?"_ **

**_She nodded, "Well, forget all those other songs and listen closely because you're going to hear a song about him that I wrote only for me, and maybe for you too. I'll never play it in the royal courts or out on the road_. _It's just for us. And you'll only get to hear it just this once,"_**

**_She'd nodded, delighted at the chance to hear this new, secret tune._ **

**_"But you must make me a promise. To never sing it for anyone else, it's our secret song. The song of our Witcher,"_ **

**_Of course, she'd agreed. With all the easy honestly of a child. Promised to keep it for just them. She'd been too young then, and too innocent to understand the hidden meanings under the beautiful words that circled around them in the crisp and sparking morning air. But she'd taken the tune and held it close._ **

**_She had somehow felt the weight of it too, the way his voice carried deep into her body, settling heavily into some secret place in her heart that had been waiting, that told her she was waiting._ **

**_She just didn't know what she was waiting for. Not yet anyway._**

**_Jaskier's song described a man who was loyal but lost, who traded in gruff words and heroic, selfless deeds. A man who was brave beyond measure, and gave his labor honestly. But whose whole life the world had conspired to force and batter into a role and on a journey he had never wanted._** **_The Geralt that Jaskier sang about, was a man afraid to love. He was afraid that the cruelty of this world; everything he'd ever experienced had taught him that loving another would only bring pain. But he had loved anyway, was capable of it, driven towards it. Hidden underneath his harsh words, behind his emotionless front was a man who cared so deeply he was constantly at battle with himself._ **

**_Ciri had remembered those words, that song, and many years later she recalled them perfectly. Though she'd only heard them that one time. It was like a spell, his magic gift of song to keep and remind her that Geralt could love._ **

**_The song reminded her to look for the worry in Geralt's eyes as he swore and stormed at her over careless mistakes in training. Reminded her to note the careful way he tended to her injuries, holding her wrist or wrapped her ribs gently as he cursed and swore. It told her his secret pain, the gentleness he hid away from everyone lest it be used against him._ **

**_She owed Jaskier, many, many times over for his kindness and foresight in giving her that song._**

**_Jaskier's song gave her the courage to show Geralt love, to show him her affection even when he wasn't yet able to return it._ ** **_For helping her see that beneath his gruff words and cold behaviour, Geralt was a man who genuinely wanted to help her and to protect her._ **

**_She owed Jaskier a debt because he helped her see inside Geralt and realise that everything he did was out of love. T_ ** **_hat insight was a key to the hidden place Geralt had slammed shut inside himself. Before she's even known Geralt, before the war and the strife, Jaskier had already given the key to unlock his heart._ **

**_Till finally he had, a_ ** **_fter years of hiding his grief and keeping his distance, he'd pulled her into his arms and wept. On the anniversary of Jaskier's disappearance, he had hugged her and mourned for what he'd lost._ **

**_As Geralt held her and finally broke down, finally allowed himself to mourn,_** **_in that frozen moment Ciri realised what Jaskier's gift to her actually was._ ** **_t wasn't just a song written to guide a lonely child. It wasn't even hers to keep. Though may not have known it at the time, now she s_ ** **_aw the whole bitter, heartbreaking truth for what it was, what he had given her, entrusted to her safekeeping._ **

__ _**On** _ **_that beautiful morning, as the dawning light had gently painted the sky in vivid golds and reds, and as the last sweet echoes of music were fading from the air around them to write themself onto her soul, he had given her a parting gift. Something she would keep safe, hide away until it was time._ ** _**And it now it was. Time to break her promise and keep it too.** _

**_As she held Geralt tight in her arms she finally realised_ ** **_that J_ ** **_askier had_ ** **_entrusted her with his final act of love._ ** ****

**_She sang it aloud._**

**_For the first time since that morning long-ago, his beautiful_ ** **_words once more had rung out, across time and memory._ **

**_She gave_** ** _Geralt his last gift from Jaskier._ ** **_Just when he needed to hear it, as_ _she had all those years ago._** **_She told him, in Jaskier's own words how much he had been loved._** ** _She showed_ ****_him that he had been understood, beyond his violence, his cold exterior and his fear._ ** **_That Jaskier had known him and loved him all the same._**

****

**_And so she sang._ **

**_As heavy_ ** **_tears ran down her cheeks but her voice strong and clear, she sang._ **

**_Because on that cold, beautiful morning Jaskier had taught her all that she needed to know about love._ **

**_With words of devotion, he'd given Geralt one last song to keep, to hold close to his heart when it felt like breaking._**

**_She sang_ ** **_Jaskier's love song to Geralt._ **

**_His final song._**

**]**

  
  
  
  


She hasn't forgotten that debt, even now it weighs heavy on her thoughts. 

_We just have to find him!_ She resolved. _He's hiding there inside._ Somehow he was, had been, a person she had once known, someone who had shown her kindness and friendship when she had needed it. She reminded herself of all that, of the sweet, kind bard of her childhood memories of the royal court. Of songs and stories. Of memories long past, but still cherished. She reminded herself that he was a person once. _He still is!_ A person who was searched for and missed deeply. A person who had been mourned. A person who was loved. 

Even though all her senses and her magic told her otherwise, she knew that this man was Jaskier. He held his memories. His heart beat with the same rhythm. His skin, his hair, his eyes; they all belonged to Jaskier. Not a shapeshifter, not an illusion. Not an impostor. It was him. She knew it to be true, down to his core being.

And yet...he wasn't. Not anymore? She just didn't know how to rationalise knowing both of these things to be true. 

That although she could find so little trace of that animated, joyful man she had briefly known in this ragged, sorrowful form, she still ached to reach out to him, comfort him in some way. And he was so terribly afraid. But she knew she couldn't touch him. Couldn't do anything for him to ease his pain. All she could do was watch and hope he was strong enough to fight this, fight his way back to them.

She pulled herself as close to him as she dared. Then guietly, gently she sang to him. She sang to remind him of who he was and what he meant to them. She sang of memories and passions shared. She sang to remind him that there was a time before all this pain. That once he had been happy and that he could be again. 

Over and over and over she sang their secret song. 

Hoping it might be enough to draw him back to them. 

Hoping it might guide him home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: Emotional and psychological pain. Mourning. 
> 
> Please comment and let me know what you think! Comments keep me writing.
> 
> PS. For those of you looking for chapter 5, I'm sorry, I posted it, but just realised that it was full of omissions and typos. I read it over and just couldn't leave it up. I'm gonna fix it and post it again later today. Apologies from my heart ❤️


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